


Half a Same Mind

by YvannaIrie



Category: Transformers: Prime
Genre: Ambiguous Relationship, Backstory dump, Beating around the bush at an excruciating length, Communication Issues, Fluff without Plot, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Vague descriptions of battlefield conditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-10 23:39:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16464509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/YvannaIrie/pseuds/YvannaIrie
Summary: ”You’re talking like the war ever really ended, Bulk.”





	Half a Same Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Me, days after finishing TFP: okay but why isn't there any longfic about these two, why can't I find anything discussing the things they did during the war, why isn't there any character studies going into depth about their issues, _where is all the fic, I want to revel in the feels_
> 
> A week later: .... okay, _fine_ I'm writing it myself.

A few days after their brawl with Starscream, it hits Bulkhead that Wheeljack really doesn’t seem to have any intention to leave.

It starts with the two of them hauling the Jackhammer's carcass to base, Wheeljack’s grumbling punctuated with forlorn sighs the entire time they gut the frame. When they’re done, he walks off with his arms full of cable and connectors, saying something about finding Ratchet and adding a secondary stabiliser to the ground bridge so it's less hard on the organics – and Bulkhead is left wondering.

And later, when they're divvying up shifts, he's off on routine patrol with Bumblebee, cuffing Bee's helm and declaring he’s looking forward to finding out how fast he really is. Ultra Magnus, naturally, jumps to tell him patrols aren’t for joyriding, which is met with a showy rolling of optics from Wheeljack and some muffled amused beeping from Bee – and Bulkhead wonders about that too, when they come back laughing, about the indulgent way Wheeljack agrees to a rematch.

And he still spends a lot of time on the fringes of the group – aboard the Iron Will, in the armoury, cajoling and eventually succeeding in cajoling Ratchet for the ground bridge opcodes so he can do maintenance out of sight of the rest of the team. But he's still there. He's still with them, showing up to refuel at odd hours, standing next to Bulkhead during briefings, recharging two berths from Bulkhead, like he always has. Like he never stopped.

It's...

Now, Bulkhead isn't very smart. He's never understood or claimed to understand the finer data points of Wheeljack's personality, only that Wheeljack doesn't like most people, and subsequently aims to spend the least amount of time around the ones he dislikes, even if it means not spending time with the ones he _does_ like, too. You can't force Jackie – his tolerance for being bossed around bends like a coil, only to eventually snap back, and take him far away, out of the range of orders and chains of command.

But he's still here.

And yeah, it's making Bulkhead happy.

It's a deep, giddy sort of happiness, the kind he hasn’t felt in at least a decade – probably longer, in fact. It’s the kind of happiness that feels like something out of his gilded memories of the best days of the war.

So the next time he's ready to head out, on standby by the ground bridge, watching Miko bat Jack around at some racing game, and Wheeljack walks back in from the ship hangar, dishevelled and looking perfectly at-home, some protocol inside Bulkhead finally wakes up to nudge him, going _Well?_ _Go on, then._

_What's there to act so neglected about?_

”Jackie!"

Wheeljack glances up, and Bulkhead points his thumb at the ground bridge. "I'm going on patrol. Wanna come with?"

”Sure,” Wheeljack says, so quickly he catches Bulkhead off-guard. Seems to catch himself off-guard, too, because he raises an optic ridge in consideration, before breaking into an infectious grin. “Yeah, sure thing. Where’re we headed?”

"If you intend to head off-base I suggest you hit the wash racks first."

Both of them turn. Ultra Magnus, standing by the database console with his back still turned to them, lifts his servo off the keyboard long enough to point towards the crew quarters. "You’re trailing coolant.”

Wheeljack rolls his optics, but just barely. "Yessir,” he drawls, shrugging at Bulkhead before turning around and walking off. Bulkhead watches him go, looking after him in consideration until he passes the metal partition separating the quarters from the rest of the warehouse.

”Ooh, patrol?" By the time he turns back, Miko has already bounced off the couch, and is leaning over the handrail excitedly. "You guys going 'Con hunting? Can I come with?"

”Oh no,” interjects Arcee. She unfolds herself from her crouch on top of one of the shipping containers, attracting Miko's attention before she manages to work her excitement up. ”I’m taking you, Smokescreen and Bumblebee to do drills. And Jack’s coming to babysit you.”

”Aw,” says Miko.

”Aw,” says Jack, but he also gets off the couch, clearly happy to get a break from the humiliation.

Arcee bumps her elbow against Bulkhead’s armour as she winks at him and walks by. The contact nudges their EM fields against one another – gratitude and encouragement bounce off each other – and Bulkhead grins back, because of course she noticed, of course she picked up on it.

They pass Wheeljack as he walks back in, water still dripping from his fenders, and Arcee bumps her elbow at him, too, earning an optic ridge raised in question and then a shrug as she just grins.

”So, where are we headed?" Wheeljack asks again, once he makes it up to Bulkhead, shooting an askance look at Ultra Magnus’ back. "Somewhere with a nice packed dirt road, I hope?"

”Preliminary scans just finished for K139,” Ratchet responds, turning to talk to Bulkhead over Wheeljack’s helm. ”Southern part of what the humans call the Rocky Mountains. We've got you covered if you need backup but, still, try not to get in trouble."

"Wreckers don't—“ Wheeljack starts mechanically, but Ratchet cuts him off with the crackle of the bridge coming online.

"Wreckers don't call for backup, yes yes, heard it the first two thousand times." He waves them off and turns back to his computer. "Shoo."

Wheeljack snickers and transforms, engine roaring the moment he's wheels down, and peels out through the portal. Bulkhead follows, just catching Ratchet grumbling something about _racing cars_ before the energy field of the bridge washes over him, forcing him to switch to his comms.

He emerges on a winding single-lane road with a steep drop into a valley on the right and the gradual rise of the mountainside on the left. He vents in the mountain air, cooler and clearer and much less hard on his filters than the stuffy air at the base, picking up speed until he catches sight of Wheeljack's tail lights.

Wheeljack flashes his indicators and slows down, letting Bulkhead take point, before clearing his comms in a burst of static and commencing his complaining.

”That stiff, Magnus. You tune an engine once, and suddenly that's on your daily docket." His engine revs, and Bulkhead swerves playfully to discourage any attempt at passing him. "And the _ceremony_ of it all. With all the washing and scrubbing and cleaning I’m doing it’s a surprise I have any paint left.”

There's no real frustration in Wheeljack's tone, just the regular performative kind, so Bulkhead laughs and starts to drift across the lane, goading Wheeljack into play-racing him. It all feels so familiar, natural, to let it happen, old habits overtaking protocol as Bulkhead settles into waiting for him to take the bait.

"You've got to stop getting your pistons in a twist every time he does things by the book, Jackie. He just hasn’t had a chance to adjust, stop thinking that this is the Elite Guard and start thinking it’s our team."

"The _Elite Guard_ ,” Wheeljack scoffs, catching onto his game and nudging a wheel's length ahead, looking for an opportunity to overtake him. "I swear to Primus, Bulk, he's just got it out for me. Smokey's from the Guard too, and he somehow doesn't have a whole girder up his aft."

"Smokes’ barely older than a newspark. You're a battle-hardened vet. Of course _he_ thinks the sun shines out of yours." Bulkhead drifts to the far left, then back, teasing space to pass him on both sides. "C'mon, play nice. Ultra Magnus is just as new to this as you are and he’s trying his best.”

”His _best_ is _stifling_. We're still Wreckers, we don't need a military babysitter."

Wheeljack swerves, and Bulkhead swerves right back. ”Right, we _are_ still Wreckers. We need someone who can keep up with us and keep us from getting ourselves scrapped." Wheeljack nudges forward, and Bulkhead follows suit, both of their engines rumbling. "And he does try to keep us from getting scrapped. Ultra Magnus is rusted stiff, sure, but I think his spark’s in the right place."

A static-y groan rattles through the comm line, and even a good six feet away, Bulkhead can feel the irritated flare of his EM field before it evens out.

”Fine. You’ve got a point.”

”Good.”

”I just don’t like it.”

”Of course you don’t.”

Bulkhead turns his mirrors, pretending to gauge whether Wheeljack could overtake him if he floored it, to get a look at the way the sun bounces – or rather, doesn't – off of Wheeljack's paint job. It really is scrubbed matte, bright and dull at the same time.

”Why don’t you let Jack take you to a real car wash some time? A new coat of wax might do your looks some good.”

”What, I’m not pretty enough for you anymore?" He nudges left, and Bulkhead follows suit. "Sorry, Bulk, letting little organics climb over me doesn’t sound like my speed.”

”You let Raf sit on you while you work.”

”Well,” Wheeljack scoffs. ”That’s _different._ "

"Uhhuh."

"If the kid wants to watch while I work, he might as well do it from where he can see what I’m doing."

"Uhhuh."

"Means I won’t step on him, either.” His tone is defensive, now. ”'Sides, I don't see you commenting on when Doc does it."

”Uhhuh." Bulkhead says, with amusement so deep it might as well be coming from his engine block. "Sure, Jackie. Whatever you say.”

His scanner pings. ”Wait – I’m picking up something.”

And like that, both of their attention snaps back to their work routines. They pull over in perfect synch, engines idling. Bulkhead scans the environment. ”A spike in the background radiation. Looks like a crevasse between those peaks. Stands out pretty sharply in the elevation graph.”

He marks the spot on the map, sends it to Wheeljack.

”Let’s head uphill. Looks to be a vantage point up there, from this side we can probably get up to the base on wheels.”

”Uh, not with this clearance, I can’t.”

Bulkhead stops, front wheels off the road, and glances with his mirrors to see what his proximity sensor already confirms. Wheeljack’s alt form sits low against the tarmac, almost in a crouch. The rocky hillside looks ripe for catching painfully in his undercarriage.

Wheeljack tilts his mirrors in a shrugging motion and chuckles. ”Sorry, Bulk. Never was much of an off-road vehicle.”

”Eh, it’s fine. Scanners show no human life signatures anyway, we can just hoof it.”

Bulkhead transforms, and Wheeljack follows suit, dusting off his fender and tilting his helm at the unfamiliar idiom. ”We’ll do what now?”

”C’mon, I’ll explain on the way.”

They start walking off the road side-by side, Bulkhead pulling his manual scanner out of subspace and getting to work.

”Ever seen horses? Earth quadrupeds, long legs, long faces?”

He transmits an image – a mustang painted on the side of a monster truck. Wheeljack makes a noise that’s just a huff of static through his vocaliser. ”I think so. What about 'em?”

”Those weird pedes are called ”hooves,” so, that’s where that comes from.”

”Huh”.

Gravel crunches as they make their way up the hill, picking a path through the thickening evergreens. ”Yeah, they’re by and large domesticated. Humans used to use them for transport, it's why you'll hear them measure engine output in _horse power_.”

Wheeljack bumps into him on the narrow path, and a flash of emotion passes through on contact. Bulkhead has just enough time to pick up on soft amusement, through the usual layers of caution and curiosity he’s come to expect. He glances back, grinning over his shoulder. ”Miko talks a lot about cars.”

”I bet she does.”

The thicket ends, giving way to grass and then plain rock, leaving them on a hillside that gets steeper with every step. Bulkhead keeps sweeping the scanner over the rocks mechanically, and Wheeljack trudges up to walk beside him, content on just checking Bulk's blind spots and taking the scenery in. Their fields brush again, finding matching concentration, curiosity. _Ease._

It really is like they never stopped doing this, isn’t it?

They stop at the top of the hill, looking down into a valley so thick with trees Bulkhead can't make out anything else, and then another bare hilltop, and another, and another, all the way into the horizon that almost glows where it blends into the sky, even in the high noon sun.

”Now there’s a sight you don’t see on every planet,” Bulkhead says appreciatively, stowing the scanner and nodding appreciatively towards the view. ”I like a good skyline as much as the next constructor, but I can't remember where on Cybertron you'd get a view like this. Maybe the Manganese Mountains, looking eastward, but even then," He waves his arm in an arch motion, trying to encompass the entire valley in the gesture. "Greens and blues like this? Never.”

”Sure is something,” Wheeljack says, with a weird tone of voice, looking over the scenery.

A second passes, and both of them stretch, still in synch. Bulkhead feels his shoulder joints pop, and vents out when the fresh air finally gets as far as his fuel lines, the cleaner burn making his core temperature rise a notch, before evening out. And then, because he can, he sits down and turns to watch as Wheeljack lifts his arms above his helm, armour flaring when he vents in and stretches, finally venting out with a roll of his shoulders.

"Stiff?"

"A bit, yeah. Too much standing around or sitting on my aft, lately." Wheeljack swings his arms side to side, face scrunching up as something audibly pops. "Office work makes me feel like I need a workout.”

Bulkhead scratches the back of his helm as Wheeljack plunks down on the rock next to him, the edges of their fields overlapping. No closer than they'd sit aboard the Jackhammer, no closer than they'd stand during briefings, but...

"We could go to catch a demolition derby or something, if Optimus lets us."

Wheeljack leans back on his servos with a disbelieving grin. "What, humans do that?"

Bulkhead laughs incredulously. "Humans get up to all sorts of crazy business. And not just with vehicles, I've seen humans on TV surfing on storm winds and jumping out of planes in flight for fun." He taps his temple with a digit, fields even and serious to match Wheeljack in an unspoken _no, really? yeah, really!_ "This species has a thrill-seeking streak a mile wide."

"Huh,” Wheeljack says meaningfully. He’s visibly struggling to keep a straight face. "And here I was, thinking all the natives are pretty tedious."

”What, you like Miko, don’t you?”

”I like _Miko_ , yeah, but she's one of ours, isn't she?"

”And Raf.”

”I… yeah, fine, I like the kids, so?”

”So, there you go. Not all bad.” Wheeljack gives him a flat, annoyed look, fields bristling with resignation again, and he can’t help reaching out, shoving a tire until Wheeljack’s façade cracks into a grin, and he swats his arm away.

"Not such a bad rock,” Bulkhead follows up eventually, when he feels Wheeljack's fields shrinking back from the companionable silence, back to that familiar brand of quiet that’s lined with barbs. He’s missed it, but he’s missed this, too, and he nudges at Wheeljack again, to make sure he knows it too. "Right? A bit on the empty side, but you've gotta admit it's got its charm."

Wheeljack hums subvocally, tensing when Bulkhead probes at his fields and then relaxing again, even though he’s retreated into a moodiness Bulkhead can’t quite get a read on. "It's different, I'll give you that much." What is that? Bitterness, reluctance? "Not exactly the Autobot bastion I expected to find out here."

Disappointment, then. "Heh, yeah, wasn't much to look at when we arrived, either,” Bulkhead says. ”Sure, it's pretty from orbit, but then you land in Nevada and it's like being back at the Sea of Rust all over. Red and flat, from horizon to horizon."

Silence.

”In fact,” Bulkhead lets himself barrel on, ”first we got here, it was almost _too_ quiet. Optimus wanted us lying low to not alert humans to our presence, so pretty much all we did was patrol for Energon and,” he chuckles, ”avoid traffic cops. Can't count the times I'd be driving along, waiting for the 'Cons to pop out of a ground bridge to ambush us, and instead get some poor cop, flashing their sirens at me, trying to arrest me for speeding. I think Arcee and Cliffjumper had a betting pool going on which one of us got impounded first.”

He laughs, and catches Wheeljack chuckling along. In the valley below them, the trees rustle and a few birds take flight. Bulkhead leans forward, resting his elbow joints against his knees.

”Took me a while to start appreciating moments like this. Having a little peace and quiet. Didn’t really start missing it until the ‘Cons showed back up some three years later, and started the war all over again.”

Wheeljack scoffs. Something sharp passes between them, a ripple of unease in Wheeljack’s bearing. ”You’re talking like the war ever really ended, Bulk.”

Bulkhead looks down, rubbing his knuckles against the palm of his servo bashfully. ”Yeah, I know, but in hindsight, for a moment there…” He reaches up to rub the back of his helm, again. "For a while, I really thought we’d gotten away, you know? Even after Arcee and Cliffjumper arrived, we only had a couple of scrap-ups with scout parties and then things just… quieted down.”

It feels awkward, how easy he makes their life on Earth sound, but if Wheeljack is disappointed in him, his fields betray none of the sort. There's just melancholia, and maybe jealousy, and when Wheeljack laughs, it's a tense, unhappy sound.

"I wish I could say the same. Didn’t see any point in following the Ark fleet, so after I left Cybertron, I figured I’d just see the sights, and mess with the ‘Cons where I could.” There's a hint of pride in his voice, and Bulkhead's missed _that_ , too. "I think I did alright. Gave them a few dings to remember me by. Trust me, a few years of tracking ion trails through nebulas, you get real good at it, even if I was living off scrap, salvage and stolen goods.”

Bulkhead shutters his optics, smiles and basks in the glow of self-satisfaction that bleeds into Wheeljack’s fields. Of course he did. Wheeljack seeking out and finding trouble to cause was probably as close to a universal constant as one could hope.

And then, Wheeljack leans away again, shaking his helm and clearing his vocaliser like he's _embarrassed_ about it, before leaning back on his servos and frowning at Bulkhead. "So, wait – you didn't bridge here directly from Cybertron?"

"Nah, we kinda hopped around at first. Our first base in this system was on one of the moons on the big gas planet, before we flew to Earth.”

”S5?”

”Humans call it Jupiter.”

”Heh. Humans. Got a name for everything.”

Wheeljack adjusts himself, folding his knees up to his frame, and then stretching out again. Shifting, ill at ease. Bulkhead follows him from the corner of his optic, frowning.

”I found your base, I think a year back. Caught it through the magnetic field." More shifting, more stretching. The gravel crunches as Wheeljack kneads his pedes against it, trying to get comfortable like there's sand under his armour. "It was abandoned and stripped clean, though, so I figured 'Cons probably found it.”

”Yeah, we really pulled that place apart when we were leaving, took everything that could possibly be of use with us. Ratchet needed the materials for our ground bridge.”

”It was the first sign of Autobot life I’d seen in two years." Wheeljack scoffs, distantly amused. "Who knew you were so close by?”

And that just makes Bulkhead frown deeper, before lifting an optic ridge suspiciously. ”So if you found our base, why wait before checking in?”

”Well, I found a base, but I couldn't find you." Wheeljack scoffs again, sharper, and then shrugs, frustration racing across his fields. "That bunker of yours was too well-shielded, and my scanners don’t… _didn’t_ play nice with all the water in the atmosphere. I followed a cold trail of a big warship, spotted the ‘Con space bridge and figured,” another shrug, almost pained, "whoever was down here, probably went the way of the people on that base."

He gives Bulkhead an askance look, almost a smile except that it's not, and Bulkhead's seen enough war to know what he's being asked to imagine. "Remember? Used to see that kind of thing a lot.”

”Yeah,” Bulkhead says, because he can’t think of anything else.

"Yeah, so,” Wheeljack leans on his servos again, swaying a little as he shifts his weight, the way he does when he’s putting his thoughts together. "Didn’t really think I’d find anything here, when I came to check it out. Least of all _you_. Last I heard of you, you and Prime had left Cybertron and, well…”

He trails off.

Tension bleeds into the air between them.

"With so many Energon caches down here, Optimus tried to keep a low profile.”

"Optimus. Right.”

”Not just _him_.” Bulkhead vents out, old frustrations bubbling up. ”We were _all_ laying low, doing nothing but resting our wheels. If we’d kept an eye out, maybe we could have called you in sooner.”

”It’s fine, Bulk.”

Wheeljack’s smile is still crooked, but it's more self-deprecating, now, not so much guilty as… maybe bashful? It feels strange that he can’t tell, even as the rippling tension eases. "I mean, I wasn’t exactly ready to settle down and play nice, when I showed up.”

Bulkhead can’t help laughing. "I didn't say anything about you _staying._ I know you too well to think something like that. Hell, you loved being with the Wreckers, and remember what a fight it was to get you to stay the first time?”

Wheeljack opens his mouth, affronted, and then shuts it when Bulkhead’s fields playfully prod him to disagree. He’s not wrong. He rarely is, with Jackie.

“You love a lot of things,” he says, “but you love having your freedom the best. I'm frankly not surprised Earth wasn't really to your specs when you first arrived here.”

Wheeljack rolls his optics, but there’s a chagrined agreement to his bearing.

”But y’know, if you’d known,” Bulkhead says, and then pauses, letting his concern bleed into his fields. He hopes it won’t be too much, and to his relief, Wheeljack doesn’t flinch away. ”At least you would have had somewhere to come back to, right? Somewhere to restock, maybe rest up? Can’t imagine you getting a lot of recharge, dodging ‘Con vessels.”

"I was doing just fine by myself,” Wheeljack says awkwardly, dropping his optics and turning away. Embarrassment shifts to apology and reassurance and... Well, yes, Bulkhead wouldn't have wanted Wheeljack to worry, either.

"Yeah, maybe you were,” Bulkhead muses. ”But the point is you shouldn't have had to do it alone.” He gestures at himself. ”I didn't. None of us did. Not when we were still with the Wreckers, and not with Team Prime."

_What’s there to act so neglected about, Bulkhead?_

"And you know, I did miss you.” Wheeljack still isn’t looking at him. ”We were in transit for so long that by the time we got back in contact, I couldn’t find out what had happened to you. If I'd known…” He waves his hand, uselessly, trying to stir the air for answers. “I dunno. I guess I could have rested a little easier, too.”

Wheeljack scoffs. “I left. Didn’t think it mattered where I went.” He pauses, something harsh and derisive slipping into his bearing. “Didn’t seem to matter when you left, either.”

"Oh, come on,” Bulkhead snaps. “That’s different and you know it. _I_ didn’t know where we were going. I don’t think _anyone_ knew where we were going. I didn’t get a choice about that but you…”

And then, before he has a chance to start, Bulkhead wills himself to stop.

He heaves a sigh, and finally looks away from Wheeljack, down into the valley and the horizon beyond it. He can almost hear his own processor work in the silence, painfully slowly carving out conclusions he hasn’t really given himself time to process, because they never felt like they should be that hard to admit.

“Tell you the truth, I’m not even sure why I’m mad about this.”

That feels heavy in a way it shouldn’t.

It feels heavy, but it feels true, too. He works his intake wordlessly, and when he finds no rebuttal, he just sighs again.

“I mean, I knew full well what I signed up for. Keeping a low profile, keeping our emissions down, leaving as little of a trail as possible in case we _did_ find something like a haven world out here. And I knew we were leaving one Pit of a battle behind us, too, with no real way of knowing who’d make it out and who wouldn’t. It was always gonna be a waiting game. I made my peace with it.”

Bulkhead leans forward, elbows on his knees. “It wasn’t until we activated the beacons and Arcee and Cliffjumper came through that we even knew how the battle had shaken out, who’d fought and where, all of it second or third hand information. And by then, you were long gone. All the report had to say about you where that you’d left the Wreckers right before all hell broke loose and then,” he makes a resigned gesture, “nothing.”

There’s something like hurt, something like frustration still lingering at the back of his mind, but it’s a slow, old sensation, and it makes his whole frame feel heavy just thinking about it. The weight of it had just sat there in his spark until at some point, Optimus had proven himself worthy of commitment, and then he’d just pushed it aside, because he had a team and his team had bigger concerns. He’d had centuries to get used to doing that.

Bulkhead laces his digits together, and tips his helm against them.

“I tried not to think about it. Tried to treat it like any other time you were gone. You know, it didn’t use to bother me when you’d leave, not knowing if I’d see you again.”

Which is as true as it needs to be.

“But _we_ didn’t leave until the arks were completed, either, and I’d seen the staging efforts at Hydrax before we left, knew what the stakes were, and when ‘Cee and Cliff came through, the way they talked about it, man,” he scoffs, the disbelief and distant horror of what they’d missed suddenly fresh on his mind, “they really made it sound like it was the end of the world. And you, well. You never could stay out of a fight for long.”

There’s a smile on his face, and he wonders for a moment how it got there before letting it linger as he decides he likes it that way. “That’s why you always came back,” he says, sitting up straighter, turning half a helm towards Wheeljack. “And you did always come back.”

He’d gotten so used to the dread.

Oh, he’d come out of plenty battles with every single sensor on his body on keen edge, alert and hyperactive and anticipating blows that never fell, listening the silence for the rumble of explosions and crack of weapons that never came. Until they always did, eventually, and every time, and he’d found he’d never stopped expecting them.

But fear wasn’t dread. Fear would pass – the shock would subside, the tension would ease. It wouldn’t bury itself into your circuits, reaching out with claws of repeated horrors, digging into your thoughts, forcing you to wonder if they'd failed this time, if they’d fail the next time, who you’d see to live through another fight, who you’d leave to die.

Fear came and went, always coming back, but always going away. Dread _remained._

And in a way, Bulkhead had almost gotten comfortable with that hardened part of himself that only saw the things right in front of him, that had battles to fight, that had wars to wage, that never looked back and never asked questions. The part that had stopped thinking about failing, because he wouldn’t be there to see it, that had stopped asking, because he didn’t want to know. There hadn’t been time for that. It hadn’t mattered.

But at his periphery, Wheeljack still hasn’t pulled away, and there’s a part of Bulkhead that cares about _that._

And he likes that part, too.

They’re still quite not looking at each other, Wheeljack leaning on his arms with vaguely tense bearing, the air between them still thick with cloudy, frustrating _moodiness,_ helm tilted towards Bulkhead and optics downcast. Bulkhead worries the edges of Wheeljack’s fields with his own, and comes away unsurprised at the fuzzy static of… something delicate. Something anxious.

Bulkhead huffs out, off-hand, leaning his chin easily on a servo.

“So, maybe you were alright. Maybe you were doing just fine without me. Maybe I was just being stupid for worrying about _you._ ”

He smiles when he spots Wheeljack tensing for an invent, opening and closing his intake like words the most impossible thing in the world to process. “Maybe all I needed was some closure. If I knew where you were, I could’ve moved on.”

Bulkhead taps his digits thoughtfully against his thigh, glancing away, then back and, yep, Jackie’s really gone tense now, face tight and spoilers pointing down like they’re bent in the wind. He snorts with laughter, and Wheeljack actually turns towards him with a scowl that’s gratifyingly distressed.

“So, have you?”

“’Course not,” Bulkhead scoffs. “You came back. I’ve got you right where I want, now.”

Wheeljack intake snaps shut, and the next moment he vents out in a soft groan, shoulders sagging and bristling with relief and annoyance to the point where it’s almost a physical sensation. Bulkhead starts laughing, some anxious thing inside him dissolving into relief, and only laughs harder at the weary, deadpan frown Wheeljack levels at him.

Bulkhead keeps chuckling as Wheeljack shifts in his seat, pulling his legs up without quite crossing them, whole frame curled up in a huff. He leans in to shove at a fender again, until Wheeljack’s offended pout morphs into a smile, and he leans to shove Bulkhead’s arm away.

“And if you don’t want to talk about what happened, that’s fine,” Bulkhead says while Wheeljack’s servo still lingers against his. He puts his arm down, and Wheeljack’s goes with it, until they’re resting on the ground, Bulkhead’s digits covering Wheeljack’s. “I can make my peace with it, now, and that’s all that matters to me.”

“Yeah.” Wheeljack smiles at him, faintly, almost cautiously. His digits twitch, but when Bulkhead shifts his to give them room, they curl back up, closing smoothly around Bulkhead’s. Oh. “Thanks.”

And then Wheeljack turns away again, thankfully, to let Bulkhead sort out the way his spark spins rapturously in his chest.

Even with physical contact, he can’t quite get a read on Wheeljack’s mood. It’s worrying, that sense of not quite being there, but what is there is affection, and appreciation, threaded through the rest that doesn’t make any sense and strong enough that even while Wheeljack’s thoughts wonder, he’s at least _back_. Close enough to feel. Close enough to touch.

And, really, that’s a hell of a luxury, isn’t it? Bulkhead just runs his thumb over the back of Wheeljack’s servo, just because he can, and thinks about how there are worse ways than this to spend time. Quite frankly, he’s in no rush. He’d waited longer just to get here, what’s a little more?

It doesn’t take long, though, until Wheeljack shrugs himself free, reaching to scratch the side of his helm. “Oh, what the Pit,” he mutters, then stretches and leans back on his servos to roll his optics at Bulkhead. “It’s not like it’s a secret, anyway.”

Unperturbed, Bulkhead rolls his shoulders and leans back on his arms, too, letting his ease roll over his fields as Wheeljack shifts in his seat, in that familiar thought-collecting way. He settles with his knees up, arms resting over them, and sits there for a while rubbing his servos together in consideration.

"I was there for the battle at Hydrax Port,” he eventually says.

Well, now.

Bulkhead sits up straighter and turns towards Wheeljack, who’s already looking back, and shakes his helm at the unvoiced question. "Not with the Wreckers. Couldn't stand the sight of them, not after they'd just folded and let Ultra Magnus take the wheel. I was pretty much on the exact other side of the front, acting as their artillery while they got their slag in order."

Wheeljack's pedes start scraping against the ground again as he shifts again, kicking loose rocks down into the crevasse.

"I did think about just leaving, flying off-system and letting command deal with the mess they made, but really, I had no intel, no backup plan, no off-system haven, no allies to contact,” he laughs, a miserable sound, “and everyone was setting the stage like Hydrax was gonna be a fight between every living spark left on Cybertron. What was I gonna do, stay out of it? Take a holiday? Hide out in orbit until the chaff settled?"

There’s a sardonic edge to his smile, his fields filled with something chilling and amorphous. “Once a Wrecker, I guess.” He kicks a stone particularly hard, sending it flying down into the valley. “I tried talking the others to leaving with me, but I think they figured out we’d just double back and get to work like we always did, end up right back where we left off. So they skipped the middle bit and stuck to doing what they were told.”

There’s a dreadful feeling right beneath Bulkhead’s spark. “Who else was there?"

"Who was left.” Wheeljack pauses, then vents in sharply, like he’s low on air. ”I don't know if you knew, but Storm went down right after Darkmount Pass.”

Bulkhead balls his fists at the sting of old grief. Wheeljack looks at him, sympathetic, but turns away when he continues. “Bad luck, really. Clipped his wing, and we just couldn't get to him in time."

It’s not that he hadn’t known. Not wanting to believe it was not the same as not knowing. "So, what, it was just you, Buster and Spray?"

"And Ultra Magnus, yeah.” A pause, no longer than a sparkbeat. “It was pretty simple, really. We just had to last out until the launch and then haul aft onto the carriers, catch up with the ark ships in orbit. Seeing as the seaside flank had a big gap in their aerial defences and I had a ship with some big guns on it, I was asked to provide cover fire, and act as advance warning.”

Wheeljack settles with his elbows on his knees, staring down at where he’s still rubbing a thumb across his palm. “So that’s what I did. It’s not like I had anything better to do. And in the meanwhile, the Wreckers kept to the continent-side, drawing as much fire as they could, although I don’t think who fought where ended up mattering much. Once the main Decepticon force hit, we were all equally up to it in slag.”

There’s an edge to his voice, now – Bulkhead can practically hear him tensing up – as he shrugs, shoulders hunched, servos stilling. ”I don’t know how Seaspray made it out. Never got a chance to ask. And I never got a chance to ask if he knew what happened to Roadbuster, either, but if I had to guess I’d say he stayed behind on Cybertron. Last we spoke, he didn’t sound like he was planning on leaving, at least. I dunno."

On the edge of his awareness, Bulkhead can feel the way Wheeljack is rushing through his thoughts now, speaking faster, trying to get them out of his system. Interrupting him now feels like the kinder option, but…

“In the end, we were too busy trying to keep the line from buckling on our end, undermanned and overrun as we were, to worry about anyone else.” Wheeljack shrugs, throwing his servos up, and suddenly his face goes tight. “And when the ‘Cons figured out they couldn’t stop the launch? They shelled the whole damn plateau, along every defensive line we had left, and if you got caught in it, you got caught in it, enemy and ally alike.”

He’d known, of course, he’d seen the reports, they’d seen it before – and still Bulkhead feels himself sighing sharply, tensing like he’s waiting to hear the rumble of artillery, the crack of weapons, but it never comes. The world grows narrow and tapered, and then the moment passes, and it’s just the two of them again.

There’s something dreadful roiling through Wheeljack’s fields, too, before he jerks his helm aside, pulling sharply out of Bulkhead’s reach. “By the time they'd finished, I couldn’t find _anyone_ in that mess – so much scrap in the air that hailing them didn’t work, and I couldn’t listen for signals even if I’d known what frequencies to look for. Eventually I got pushed out of the territory – with the main artillery gone, whatever Autobot stragglers were left were easy pickings.”

“You did what you could,” Bulkhead says, inadequately. “You’re lucky _you_ made it out."

Wheeljack scoffs, sharp and angry. “Maybe. Didn’t exactly stick to find out afterwards. As soon as the fleet was off-system, I turned my ship around and just… left. I haven’t been back since.”

The silence that follows almost rings.

Then Wheeljack vents out in a long, trailing sigh. He drops his servos in his lap and looks into the horizon with unseeing optics.

“You know how Chief used to say that the way you win wars is you start a fight and keep it up until the other guy runs out of things to throw at you?” Wheeljack scoffs, and makes a face that is probably trying to be a smile. "That’s what I thought Hydrax would be. My team was gone. My home was gone. You’d left with Prime and I figured,” he shrugs ambivalently, “there wasn’t much else to do than give it what I had left and leave the clean-up to the winners, like we always did.”

Wheeljack rests his elbows on his knees again, curling in on himself unhappily, and Bulkhead finds himself leaning forward too, clasping his servos together to keep them still.

“I wouldn’t say I had _no_ exit strat,” he says, eventually, then seems to realise how unconvincing that sounds, because he glances back Bulkhead, tries to work his face into something reassuring, before giving up and looking away. “I just don’t think any of us were thinking about what came after that much, whether we’d won or lost. Although,” he scoffs. “I guess Hydrax wasn’t the kind of battle that you went in to try to _win_ it, you know?”

Wheeljack shakes his helm, and that look, that awful smile that just _feels_ wrong in ways that makes Bulkhead’s spark ache in his chest, finds its way back on his face. “The war the way we fought it had already ended by then. Hell, it had probably ended even before _you_ left. Too bad it took me so long to work that out for myself that there was nothing left for me to do on Cybertron, _or_ with the fleet.”

He looks up, eyes sweeping over the horizon, still with that joyless smile on his face. “So I left, too,” he says lightly, like it’s a joke, like it’s supposed to be _funny_. “Figured that it would be the same as always – that if I just went looking, there would always be somewhere else to be, with something else to do. Started chasing whatever trails I could find, looking for that rush, thinking that it couldn’t be any more quiet out there than it was planet-side.”

Bulkhead can feel the incredulity coming off him in waves, and it hurts to listen when Wheeljack laughs at himself for it. “I was _wrong._ It is barren as the Pit out there, Bulk. Eventually the last of the trails went cold, and it was just me and hundreds of thousands of light years of empty space. No different than the radio silence after Hydrax.”

Wheeljack vents out softly, and makes a wan face like he wasn’t sure what he was expecting, before leaning back on his arms wearily and turning towards Bulkhead. The incredulity drops from his bearing, leaving behind nothing but fatigue and submission.

It feels bad to watch, and yet, and _yet_ —

“And then I came here.” Wheeljack hums a laugh. “And here you were.”

And suddenly, a wealth of emotion rolls over Bulkhead. Longing, loneliness, affection, worry – all there for one moment, and then gone before Bulkhead knows what to do with himself – and he expects it to pass, keyed up and waiting to catch it all before the barriers go back up.

But it doesn’t. The barriers stay down.

Wheeljack gives him halfway smile, like he thinks it’s somehow sad.

“I’m glad I found you,” he says.

It’s the truth – it can’t _not_ be the truth, the way Bulkhead feels how much he means it in his every circuit.

”I missed you, well,” and with that, Wheeljack looks away, leaving Bulkhead to linger in a swirl of bittersweet emotions and a creeping, by-now familiar moodiness. “I missed everyone, while I was still out there, looking. It’s a big empty cosmos out there.”

He sits up straighter, looks into the horizon with a melancholy smile, but at least it’s a smile, at least he’s no longer making in that awful, unhappy face. “Here, though? All of that doesn’t weigh on me so much. It’s got a bit of that old excitement, and even if it is a little on the empty side, I’ve seen a lot worse by now.” He glances at Bulkhead, tilts his helm to the side in admission. “You’re right, Bulk – it’s not a bad rock.”

A beat.

“And you know, I'd be lying if I said I didn’t like your team.”

Wheeljack shifts in his seat belligerently, pulling a truly spectacular chagrined face, suddenly all suspicion and injured pride, and something tense that had been sitting in Bulkhead’s chest suddenly unfurls, vanishes before he can work out what it was. He grins, as Wheeljack settles, leaning his chin on his servo with the kind of deliberate huffiness Bulkhead knows to expect. Jackie doesn’t like most people, after all.

“They really are good,” he continues, with a great amount of performative reluctance, “a lot better than I like admitting. Prime's a good leader. Arcee’s a good partner. The kids are a credit to their species. You fight well together. You get along.”

His expression softens as he talks, ending up something fond, and Bulkhead realises he’s started chuckling, for no real reason. He shifts back to lean on his arms, feeling warm and happy, which only strengthens when he spots Wheeljack smiling back at him from the corner of his mouth. 

“I hate to admit it, but they really are something,” Wheeljack says, still leaning on his servo. “You’ve worked hard to have all of this and I’m glad it seems to be working out for you.”

And then, without dropping, something about his smile changes, and he turns all the way away. “I frankly don’t think I’m needed here,” he says with a tone that’s suddenly a little bit too cheerful. “I'm not sure I’m needed anywhere, at this rate."

Suddenly, something feels very off.

“Don’t say that.”

“And why not?” Wheeljack sits up stiffly, waving his servo for emphasis. “All I know is how to make hell, Bulk. You really think _that’s_ what this place needs right now?” He aims another crooked smile at Bulkhead, before looking away again.

That feels wrong. Suddenly _all_ of it feels wrong.

Worried, Bulkhead sits up straighter, watches Wheeljack clasp and unclasp his servos, as he curls back in on himself. Something distressed roils away beneath the fuzzy cloud of a feeling Bulkhead can’t place, so clear and sharp and easy to spot that it almost has to be familiar, he knows Wheeljack _too well_ to not know what this is about.

Right?

“You had my number from the start, you know.” Wheeljack says, measured and monotonous. “This war you're fighting here on Earth isn't anything like the one I signed up for back home, and it isn’t anything like what we did back with the Wreckers, either.” He shakes his helm with a listless smile. “This isn’t how I do things. And even if there was something else I was good for, well, I get the feeling your team's already got it covered. You don’t need me here to ruin that.”

For a moment, his fields flicker into a dreadful sort of certainty, before dulling back into that helpless, smothering confusion and – oh. _Oh._

“But I already tried leaving, and that didn’t seem to work out that well for me. Wound up coming right back, because there really is nothing left out there, either.” Wheeljack glances at Bulkhead, but snaps his helm back when Bulkhead almost meets his optics. “The only things left that matter are all here. I’m not sure I even want to leave, it’s just—”

He stops, and vents in, but nothing follows. Wheeljack’s face pulls into a grimace, the stress and the confusion so growing _unbearably_ intense and really, Bulkhead needs to interrupt him now, end this, make it _stop_ before—

But then something, thankfully, seems to give. Wheeljack sighs softly, shoulders falling.

“I don’t know why I’m still here, Bulk,” he admits.

It’s not hard to work out that feels heavy but true, too.

 _Oh, Jackie_ , Bulkhead thinks.

After a few more torturous processor cycles, he finally thinks to reach out. Primus, he can be so _slow_ sometimes, but at least his servos are finally catching up to his intent, and he puts a hand on Wheeljack’s arm guard, waits for him to flinch and when he doesn’t holds on like he hopes to anchor them both.

They sit there, Bulkhead’s mind churning, thoughts coming up short where they don’t terminate entirely as useless side-tracks. He knows what he wants to say, really, because there’s so much that’s missing from this conversation – coils of cable, patrol schedules, the wordless greetings when trading shifts, the way they stand together during briefings – really, Wheeljack’s always had a gift for missing the things right in front of his face, always too busy asking _why_ , or more often _why not_ , to pay attention to how things really fit together.

But that’s not what he’s asking this time so what would telling him any of that _help?_ You can’t just give an answer to a question that hasn’t been asked, and as long as he doesn’t know how to tell Wheeljack where to _start asking…_

Bulkhead sighs.

“C’mere.”

Bulkhead lets go of Wheeljack’s arm and for a brief moment Wheeljack is startled, something upset flashing through his fields – but then Bulkhead leans over, and Wheeljack looks up at him with dimming optics, fields once again taking on a brittle edge, and he doesn’t even have his arm all the way around Wheeljack’s shoulders when he’s already leaning into the embrace.

They’ve drifted closer, and yet Bulkhead can feel the distance he has to reach to pull Wheeljack all the way into his arms, Wheeljack’s hip bumping against his but graciously pulling his arms close so that Bulkhead can reach around him. His free hand pulls a spoiler out of the way, sliding down the length of Wheeljack’s arm, back to the arm guard, digits curling into seams and generally just gathering as much of Wheeljack in his arms as he can reach.

“That’s not true,” he mutters, thinking about the distance he’d let Wheeljack put between them and wonders if he should have stopped it then, if that would have stopped this now.

Wheeljack hums in acknowledgement, and starts uncurling into Bulkhead’s personal space with the distinct air of being too tired to fight it, but it’s not like he’s hiding his enjoyment when his shifting makes Bulkhead loosen his grip, only to grab on to familiar gaps in his armour again. He rests his weight back against him, tilting his helm back enough that he can look up at Bulkhead from the corner of his optic, with a look that’s just tender enough that Bulkhead knows he probably wasn’t listening again.

“Which part exactly?” Wheeljack says, dry as the wastes.

And Bulkhead sighs _again,_ louder when he feels amusement bubbling into Wheeljack’s fields. “No, I’m serious,” he says when Bulkhead turns away, with a tone that’s doing _nothing_ to convince Bulk he’s not trying to provoke him, “you’re gonna have to be a little more specific than—”

“Jackie?”

“Uhhuh?”

“Shut up.”

Wheeljack laughs. “Okay.”

And then he shuts up, except he doesn’t – except, for a moment, the barriers stay down again.

And Bulkhead gets it, well, he _doesn’t_ get it, because they’re alright, and he’s happy, and yet he can feel it in his spark that Wheeljack _isn’t,_ and he doesn’t know _why—_

But he gets why the question feels like it might be wrong on _purpose_. Why it’s easier for Wheeljack not to know than to ask and find out. Hell, Bulkhead had gone with Optimus rather than find out, while Wheeljack had at least _tried_ , headed right ahead to look for it, pushed himself to go further because he had that gift for missing things.

And who’s Bulkhead to blame him for not finding it out until now? He couldn’t do it back then either. He’d just built up hardened parts of his own.

He hadn’t wanted to know.

Wheeljack’s spoiler twitches against him, as he vents warm air over it, fans clicking off as he calms back down. He flexes his servos, digits sinking deeper into gaps in armour, sensory net flooding with feedback from Wheeljack – the idle of his engine, contact programs tracking Bulkhead’s touch, the pulse of his spark underneath the layers of signals – and Wheeljack nudges his fields in apology and gratitude, warm and inviting.

And that moodiness – it’s not gone, but maybe now Bulkhead knows how to stop it from creeping back.

“Do you remember Causus?”

Wheeljack makes a questioning hum, confusion in his fields – not the horrible noise from before, but actual, regular, normal confusion. Good.

“Up on Tagan Heights, right before we got pushed out of the sector.”

Wheeljack tilts his helm, folding up his arms and rapping his fingers against the back of Bulkhead’s servo in consideration, before he makes sound of realisation, and nods firmly. “The one with the minefield.”

Bulkhead snorts. “Out of all the things, you remember the _minefield_?”

“To be fair, it was a pretty memorable minefield,” Wheeljack says with what is probably trying to be a reasonable tone, “on account of me driving straight into it.”

There’s amusement about his fields as he shifts to make himself more comfortable, and Bulkhead can’t bring himself to disapprove entirely. He skims the digits of his free hand over Wheeljack's forearm, until they come back to the elbow joint. There's an actuator cable there, easy to reach, familiar, and Bulkhead runs the tip of his digits over the housing almost unthinkingly.

“How much do you remember about the rest of that battle? Or the whole offensive, really.”

Wheeljack frowns, leaning further into Bulkhead’s arms, and then shakes his helm with a sour look.

“Bits and pieces. Kinda goes fuzzy around the ambush,” he says with a meaningful roll of his optics, “pretty sure you and I came out of that one with five and a half limbs and one working processor between us.”

Bulkhead hums in agreement, letting Wheeljack’s fields bleed into his own. Concern, now, and curiosity, and Bulkhead can’t blame him, it’s not like _he_ likes talking about the war that much.

“You know, we spent 16 straight orns in that slag,” he says darkly. “When we weren’t scrounging up scrap to restock, we were batting the ‘Cons back – back and forth, the entire time. Even after you and I got taken out, I think our sector was the only one that held the entire time, but in the end, it didn’t matter. The south line was close to giving by the time we both were back in the fight, so the ‘Cons just sent in the combiner unit and, well…”

He shrugs and Wheeljack makes an acknowledging noise. Their fields stir, in deep, burning dissatisfaction.

Bulkhead shakes his helm, as the resentment starts to burn out.

“The war didn’t turn then. We’d been losing Tagan even back when I was still infantry, but…”

Wheeljack shifts, makes himself more comfortable against Bulkhead’s side, and puts his servo over Bulkhead’s again. Bulkhead's focus drifts to him running his digits along and over the scarred armour, forcing his servos to unclench. It’s strange. It’s been long enough that he isn’t even really _angry_ about it anymore, not the way Wheeljack thinks he is, but…

“And the part that got to me about it,” he hears himself saying, while he’s still tracking Wheeljack’s touch over his hands, “was that we didn’t even _see_ it. By the time you and I were back in action, the order had already come through. We pulled out of the whole sector, let the ‘Cons keep what was left.”

Bulkhead turns his palm over, taking Wheeljack’s servo in his own.

“All of that, all that sacrifice – and for what?”

And it had just kept happening. Compliantly, Jackie’s digits stop, letting Bulkhead just… hold on, for a moment.

After a while, he turns Wheeljack’s servo over in his own, contemplatively. “You never asked me why I went with Optimus, you know.”

Wheeljack shrugs. “I thought if you knew you’d tell me.”

It’s not an accusation.

“Yeah.”

It’s not, but if Wheeljack _were_ angry with him… He’s not, and the dismay and guilt he feels pass under his servos is enough to confirm it, but if he _were_ , Bulkhead wouldn’t blame him.

“I don’t think I knew back then, either. Maybe it started after Tagan, or maybe Taxxon, or Sandokan or…” He stops suddenly, spark aching. Maybe it had started with Impactor, but this isn’t the time and place for that. So he just sighs. ”I just started feeling like we were on borrowed time, somehow. There was always another battle to think about, another fight we had to get through, and then another, and then _another_ , and there was never time to think about what would happen when the fighting stopped, _if_ it stopped.”

“You’re right, Jackie. It wasn’t the kind of war you won.”

He falls silent, and to his surprise, Wheeljack leans more firmly against him, his whole attention on Bulkhead, fields candid and clear.

Worry. Melancholia. Something like grief, but… Well, it hadn’t done for the two of them to grieve for very long, had it? Not when the fighting was still going, not when there was the fate of their home at stake. Don’t think about what you just did, don’t think about what went wrong, don’t ask questions, don’t look back. And even afterwards, Bulkhead never really had. He isn’t smart like that – he fights, and he loves, and he grieves, and then he moves on.

But if the world were that simple...

“I never could work out why it got to me. Not until I met Optimus.”

And that… That also feels heavy but true.

And maybe that’s why, with so many things unsaid between them, with so many of _those_ things being heavy and true, is why both of them are so bad at talking about any of this.

Bulkhead lets Wheeljack’s servo slide out of his grip, lets his hold on him come loose as he sits back on his haunches.

“You know, back at Polyhex, Optimus was already talking about how fighting over the scraps until we all went offline wouldn’t help anybody.” He shakes his helm, feeling Wheeljack tilt his head, to look at him from the corner of his optic, tracking the motion. Put into words like that, it sounds too obvious to be so simple. “He knew the war had gotten too big. That if it got any bigger, _nobody_ was gonna come out on top. That there had to be something more out there.”

He runs his thumb over the edge of Wheeljack’s arm guard.

“That’s why I went with him. I think that just… came at the right time.”

There’s no sharp realisation. There’s no surprise. Really, there’s no flood of sudden emotion from Wheeljack at all, just a sensation of something unravelling, some of that ever-present noise shifting to understanding, just a little bit _,_ before Wheeljack grabs his hand, and pulls it over his arm protectively.

And then he just holds on. Like he thinks that if he just holds on strong enough… Ah, of course.

After a moment, Bulkhead sits up straighter, leans his weight forward against Wheeljack, lets his hands find their places between gaps of armour again.

“And then Optimus brought us here. And Earth… Well.” Bulkhead shrugs, jostling them both. “Y’know, it’s not _Cybertron_ , but at least there’s more to this planet than just the war. It’s got demolition derbies and views like this and more than enough Energon, and you can find a good car wash within a few hours’ drive almost anywhere.”

Something warm and fond fills his spark, and Bulkhead smiles, at his thoughts and feelings both. “And it’s got my team, now. It’s got Miko and the other humans, even Fowler. And it’s got you. Got everything I want, now, right here.”

He shifts, just a little, meeting the noise in Wheeljack’s fields head-on with his own certainty. “I’m starting to feel okay about it. I’m starting to feel like I’m home.”

And that prompts a strange sound from Wheeljack – not a scoff, not a laugh, but something sharp and desperate, accompanied by a rush of something so chaotic and shapeless through his fields that by the time Bulkhead catches up, he’s fallen silent again.

He stays quiet, for what feels like the longest time, before speaking up.

“Home, huh.”

“Yep.”

“A life after the end of the war.”

“Yep.”

And then Wheeljack laughs, deep in his chest, soft like the rumbling of an idling engine.

“I can’t even imagine.” He turns, leaning against Bulkhead’s arm and twists around to make eye contact with a strange, reserved smile. “Do people really live like that? Can _we_ really live like that?”

And that’s the cornerstone of all of this, isn’t it? It’s Wheeljack, looking up at Bulkhead imploringly, nearly asking _what the hell are we going to do, Bulk?_

And all Bulkhead could say, if he did ask, would be _I don’t know._

 _I don’t know, but…_ “We’ll be alright. Haven’t we always been?”

Wheeljack doesn’t say anything, as he turns away, leaning back against Bulkhead’s side for comfort.

But the barriers stay down.

It takes them a while, this time. As far as Bulkhead’s concerned, he could sit on the hillside for the rest of the day, Wheeljack’s fields filtering into his until he doesn’t need to touch to feel the tick of his systems working, and can touch just because he feels like it. It’s touching without intention, finding cables to unkink within servo’s reach, and basking in affection as Wheeljack relaxes in his arms, revelling in the attention, and responding in kind.

But eventually Bulkhead feels the usual alertness start coursing in the undercurrent of Wheeljack's fields, because they’re never still for that long, never in rest for longer than they need. Wheeljack stops running his digits over the seam of Bulkhead’s wrist, and clears his vocaliser almost apologetically.

”You know, we should probably get back on patrol.”

There's a deep reluctance to it, and Bulkhead can't help smiling again, rubbing his hand across Wheeljack's forearm sympathetically. ”Yeah, not a bad idea.”

And then he relaxes his grip on Wheeljack, waits until he stretches to shuffle away and climb back on his pedes, sticking a servo out for Wheeljack to grab. ”C’mon. Let’s go check out that spot on the height map, Ultra Magnus will get on our case if we get back with nothing to show for it.”

Just like that, Wheeljack’s fields bristle again, and he groans profoundly.

”You just _had_ to bring him up,” Wheeljack all but growls as he ignores the outstretched servo and Bulkhead’s grin. ”C’mon, Bulk, I thought we were having a _moment_.”

”Yeah, yeah, yeah, whine whine whine,” Bulkhead supplies as he grabs Wheeljack by a fender, pulling him on his pedes. Wheeljack gives him a look calculated to communicate the maximum amount of disappointment, before bending to dust himself off, the drama of it somewhat undercut by the almost magnetic sensation of him still relishing Bulkhead's attention. He makes no attempt at making Bulkhead move his hand from his shoulder. "You’re the one who wanted to get back to work, not me."

”To _work_ , yeah. I’m starting to regret saying anything about going _back._ " A derisive snort. "I bet he expects me to write a _report_ or something.”

Wheeljack straightens himself up, venting out sharply to clear out his filters, looking over the view down into the valley. Then he turns to give Bulkhead’s hand one lingering look, their fields still momentarily intertwined, with too many emotions between them and no reason to name them all, before glancing up at Bulkhead and shrugging himself free for one last grandiloquent stretch.

"Alright, let's go before I have a chance to regret this further."

And so they start downhill, pedes sliding on the gravel. About a third down, Wheeljack gives up the pretence of walking, hopping on the loose strata with a "watch this!,” and sliding down the rest of the hill with an excited whoop. Bulkhead follows him, laughing and sliding off-balance with every third step while Wheeljack waits at the foot of the hill, hands on his hips, looking outrageously satisfied with himself.

"No fair, you're a frame class lighter than me!"

"Or you're just slow," Wheeljack snorts. "Age catching up to you, Bulk?" And then he ducks out of the way, laughing, when Bulkhead tries to cuff him for the affront. "See? You couldn’t catch a mine trawler, with reflexes like that."

"I'll show you slow!"

Bulkhead's engines growl and he swipes at Wheeljack again, letting himself miss by a wide margin just to keep the gleeful smile on Wheeljack's face a little longer. Wheeljack practically bounces on his heels as he backs up out of Bulkhead's reach.

"Bet you still can't beat me in a fair fight."

"Bet I can,” Wheeljack says with his words. _Absolutely not_ , he says with his face, and then looks away, trying to rearrange his expression into something nonchalant when Bulkhead raises a decidedly unimpressed optic ridge at him.

“Uhhuh.” Bulkhead rolls his optics, charmed, and pulls his scanner out of subspace. "Sure, Jackie."

He hears Wheeljack jog to catch up to him, as he busies himself with finding the signal he’d let lead him up the hill before.

They fall back in pace, effortlessly.

And it really is like they never stopped doing this, when Wheeljack reaches a servo against his back as they enter the crevasse, letting Bulkhead lead them on. A light touch is all he needs to keep up, and to let Bulkhead know he intends to keep up, eyes at their back – and all Bulkhead needs to feel his concentration and curiosity and underneath, uncomplicated happiness and comfort. _Ease._

Enough to make his spark feel lighter.

After a while, the crevasse narrows, like the path up the hillside, then splits into two ledges not quite wide enough for the two of them, around a fissure that's big enough for a human to fall in. Bulkhead stops, and waves at Wheeljack to stand back, before inching up to the edge and stomping it a few times to see if it carries. Rocks tumble off the edge, and make a hollow crack somewhere beneath them.

Behind him, Wheeljack takes a step back, and crosses his arms meaningfully. "If you fall in I'm not pulling you up,” he says firmly, and Bulkhead rolls his optics as he leans forward, and waves the scanner over the chasm. The readings jump, then drop.

"Huh. Wouldja look at that. The rock's dampening it, but I’m betting there’s an old Decepticon mine down below." He taps at the scanner, but the readings stay below detectable range until he sticks it right over the fissure. "Starscream used to leave some of them half-stripped for some reason.”

”Scream always was waiting for a chance to slip a knife into Megatron's back,” Wheeljack says as he sidles closer, peering down into caves below. "Wouldn't be surprised he was leaving himself resources in case he got into his bad books."

“Heh. You’re not wrong.” The scanner’s sonar picks up the depth, about twice too deep to easily climb out of. “Well, we could get down from here if we blast a hole,” Bulkhead says with a frown before looking up at Wheeljack, “but unless Ratchet can bridge us back, who knows when we’d get out. The entrance could be miles off, and we’ll probably need the full scanning kit to find anything worth anything anyway.”

"Then I guess we’re just gonna have to come back later, with better gear,” Wheeljack replies cheerfully, and backs away from the fissure. “Thank Primus for that. Is that enough following orders for one day? Please tell me this is enough following orders for one day.”

Bulkhead laughs as they back out of the crevasse, Wheeljack bounding ahead to pick a route to circle back towards the road on a grassier, less steep side of the hill.

“That’s some work ethic you’ve got, Jackie.”

"Don’t insult me. I don’t think I’ve done routine since my Academy days.” He makes a disgusted noise, and cringes in dramatic exaggeration. “Why do you think _you_ idiots were the only ones who ever got me to stay?”

“You call that staying? Could have fooled me,” Bulkhead grumbles, but it’s with no real frustration, and he knows Wheeljack can tell when he turns on his heel to walk backwards, smiling a wry smile that makes Bulkhead feel warm from helm to pedes.

“Alright, you got me, guilty as charged,” he drawls, putting his servos up with a brazen grin, before turning on his heel again, setting up the hill. “But you’ve gotta admit, you wouldn’t like me nearly as well if I stayed.”

“C’mon, no fair. I like you just fine,” Bulkhead complains, and then yelps and throws a servo out when he slips again.

Wheeljack’s already there to catch it, Bulkhead’s servo landing on his chest as he overbalances, laughing as he pulls Bulkhead up a few steps, until they’re both off the gravel.

“I like you right where you are just fine,” Bulkhead says as he finds his pedes, digits hooked into Wheeljack’s armour where he’s holding Bulkhead’s servo in place, radiating amusement and affection.

“You say that, but never try to stop me from going,” he says, still smiling.

“Well, yeah, because you don’t like staying.” Bulkhead aims for a serious expression, as he cups his digits against Wheeljack’s chin in a reproachful gesture. “But don’t try talking to me like I’d need to make you stay anymore. I’m not _that_ stupid.”

Wheeljack’s still holding onto him when he pulls his arm back.

It’s effortless to pull Wheeljack along with it.

Wheeljack steps off the slope, arms coming up to steady himself against Bulkhead’s shoulders as he catches him around the waist, lifts his whole frame off the ground, until they’re standing there, helm to helm.

“You’re not, Bulk,” Wheeljack says, armour sun-warm in Bulkhead’s arms. “You’re really not.”


End file.
